by Luciano Iacobelli
We’re all amazed
how public you make your death
you say wrong turns
missed opportunities
caused your disease
angry and resentful
except when you’re alone
at your favorite table
near the front window of Dooney’s café
reading a book
how does a dying man read
doesn’t read at all
but falls into the book
a ripe fruit
and you look up from the pages every few minutes
introspection’s figurehead
you stare blankly into air
reflection without ladder
a long red
sundown
is the soul summarizing itself
your starts and finishes collected
then assembled into a stare
a look resembling the back of things
so when Night turns around
we mistake your gaze
for its spine.
— from Juniper Volume 1, Issue 1